


The God's Gift: Ignis

by Craigosaurus



Series: The God's Gift [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Altered Mental States, Gen, Horror, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 02:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12201783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Craigosaurus/pseuds/Craigosaurus
Summary: What if each of the chocobro's was suddenly 'gifted' with the knowledge of everything that was to happen: to them, to their world, and to their Prince.





	The God's Gift: Ignis

**Author's Note:**

> Heyas!
> 
> I was actually going to have this mini series be one singular fic, with 4 chapters, one for each bro. But then this started to get pretty long winded. And I need a moment to think, so I figured I'd just post it as is, so I'm free to carry on as long as I please and in any way I feel fit!
> 
> Instead, I decided to make it an actual series, and gave each bro their own fic.

Ignis was fully capable of taking care of himself.

 

On the battlefield, and in every other aspect of his life. 

 

Even at the age of twenty-two, his vast knowledge and mannerisms we're enough to gain the respect of many, and with ease. He was composed, proper, and responsible.

 

He was, in fact, quite possibly the most responsible out of them all. Gladio might have been a close second, but only due to the few extra years he had above them, and nothing more.

 

But Ignis: he simply  _ was. _

 

It’s why they had left the man alone in their shared hotel room, without a second thought. Just as they've done countless times before. They all needed their own personal downtime every now and then, sprinkled between being packed in a car most of the day like sardines.

 

They've all had to deal with each others tempers, each others crankiness, and each others inability to  _ shut up _ at times.

 

Ignis most of all. The ever so patient Ignis, who at times simply needed to be  _ alone. _ He’d make promises of losing his Six damn mind. And the other three men knew not to test the advisor’s limits. Lest he commit murder and treason, before they could even board that boat towards Altissia.

  
  


So without much coaxing, they had made a beeline for the door, leaving Ignis to enjoy his peace and silence.

  
  


Cause Ignis could take care of himself.

  
  


Cause he didn't need them around at all times.

  
  
  


Apparently, they were wrong.

  
  
  


“What in the Astrals name…” is what barely manages to push it's way past Gladio's lips, cool undistilled horror clinging to every word like a disease, as if it were the scourge itself. Amber eyes danced about the room in panic filled haste, taking it all in, bit by agonizing bit. And it's enough to rip the air right out of the man's lungs all at once, leaving him a gaping mess there where he stood, by the door frame of their rented room.

  
  


The walls.

  
  


They were covered. Completely, saturated in words. In writing. Writing none of them can read. Writing in a language none of them can speak.

 

It's everywhere. No matter where they turn their gaze, it's there, unreadable letters staring right back at them, like a threat. It's on the walls, it's on the floor. And where the two meet at the few pieces of furniture that decorated the room, it stretched across those as well, completely and utterly undeterred. It went as far as covering the once clean and crisp white bed sheets, across the once clean and see through glass of the windows. It's on the pulled curtains that cast the room in a lulling and comforting semi-darkness; it's on that morning's newspaper that once sat at the coffee table and was now strewn across the floor; it's on the towel that's hanging from one of the chairs in the corner; it's on parts of the  _ ceiling,  _ where the wall meets it with it's crown molding. 

 

Those Gods damned letters have managed to make their way across the bedroom and into the  _ bathroom _ as well. They don't need to go in there to know it's most likely in the exact same condition. They don't need to see it, to know the writing covered every available surface, towel, corner and tile.

 

There's a map. One of Eos. It's hanging from one of the walls- the one to their left. And it's covered as well, to the point they cannot recognize what region is which from sight alone, without relying on memory. It's covered in notes, and what seem like tidbits of information they cannot read. 

 

And finally,  _ finally _ the writing ends- _ or maybe it begun- _ on the few note cards spread out across the table, on a few loose pieces of paper that resemble the kind you'd put in a photocopy machine, and in that leather bound book Ignis kept on him at all times. Gladio doesn't have to even touch it to know every page has been filled.

 

And the trail of balled up paper, discarded over the other half of the table, leading to a large pile that filled the nearby armchair- they were all probably filled as well with much of the same. They're spilling down the chairs sides, to leave a puddle of crumpled white on the floor below. Some others seem to have made their way across the room, perhaps thrown there in a moment stricken with frustration. The rest fill the trash can, most likely put there in the initial moments of clarity.

 

There's an uncomfortable amount of pens littering the ground as well, just about everywhere. Some are missing their ink cartridges, others are completely snapped in half. And there are enough spread across the floor to make it look like a damn minefield. The number is definitely in the double digits. It was probably their entire Six damned pen stock, the entire box they had brought along, all used up and tossed to land wherever without a care. It's clear, that what they were used for was important, and time sensitive. 

  
  


That's when they spot the culprit, on the floor, legs crossed and shoulders hunched in on themselves. He's facing away, giving his back to them. His purple shirt is untucked, a wrinkled mess, and his pants and shoes are missing entirely. Almost as if he had been in the middle of dressing himself before the  _ madness _ hit.

  
  


Because who else could have done this. And what else would it be if not complete  _ madness. _

  
  


“Iggy?” Noct's voice is soft, daring and careful.  _ Oh so careful _ . As if speaking the advisor's name would break the man. As if the ground would open up right then and there in the middle of the room and swallow Ignis whole, right before their eyes.

 

Gladio finds himself sharing the same sentiment, his gaze fixed on the sight before them, eyes wide with concern and  _ fear _ . Fear for Ignis. Fear for his safety _.  _ Because none of this was currently vouching for the man's sanity. And its absolutely  _ terrifying _ .

  
  


But Ignis doesn't answer. Doesn't even acknowledge them.

  
  


Instead he remains unmoved, in the same exact position they've found him in. Completely still, save for the soft tremble in his upper body, the rise and fall of his chest the only confirmation they have that the man was indeed still breathing and  _ alive. _

  
  


It's when they notice his glasses, in unison. They are laying there, to the side, also discarded, like nothing more than rubbish. One of the lenses is cracked, the other missing entirely. It doesn't take much for it to catch up to them: they were thrown across the room as well. Most likely hitting the adjacent wall. Somehow, they haven't simply snapped clean in two. And considering the amount of force it must have taken, for one of the worn glass squares to pop out of frames made specifically to withstand battle, it's a feat all in itself.

  
  


It's the soft sound of scratching, that grabs their attention next. And it's enough to make them realize, far too belatedly, that they were wrong, when three pairs of eyes shift to inspect their grounded companion. There is movement, coming from the lithe man on the floor. His arms are bent upwards at the elbow, hands on his head.

 

And his fingers. Ignis’ fingers, they are  _ red _ . Stained, with what appeared to be dried blood. And only the Gods truly know how long it's been there, how long it's been smeared across delicate digits. Digits which were currently buried in the wild and unkempt sandy blonde hair atop his head. Digging. Scratching at the scalp there.  _ Desperately. _ As if trying to make their way through his skull, to his brain, to remove the whole organ, _ a chunk at a time. _

  
  
  


And if they listen closely, they can hear the soft indecipherable mutterings that filled the room as much as those haunting letters did.

  
  


And Gladio can't take any more. 

  
  


He's scared. He hasn't been this scared in a while: since his dad got into that accident that turned out to be minor, leaving the senior shield bedridden for no longer than a day. Since Iris, his little sister Iris, filled with young curiosity and stubbornness, trademark of the Amicitia's, had gone missing somewhere in the rain. Since they had to leave Insomnia, only for it to fall.

  
  


But so far, this is the scariest Six damned thing Gladio has ever seen.

  
  


The two younger men seem to agree, by the shared look on their faces, Prompto's slack jaw, and Noct's wide eyes, currently the size of dinner plates. Gladio can only see it in his peripheral, but it's enough. Its plenty to know they are all terrified.

  
  


He breathes in, counts to five, and then exhales. Fingers twitching at his sides. He wants to run up to the man, hold him to his chest and take away whatever has the advisor in such excruciating distress.

  
  


Instead, he takes a step forward, only one- carefully, taking into account the possible mental fragility of the man on the ground before him. Gladio doesn't know what to expect, he was trained to remain alert in cases such as these, where the enemy was unknown. Where they had close to no intel or none at all. Where the body count might be in the double digits, possibly triple, or quadruple; and any and every preparation might not be enough. But this was  _ Iggy _ , and not some enemy. And that alone somehow made this that more terrifying.

  
  


“Ignis…” he tries, inching closer at a minuscule and controlled pace. Amber eyes scanning the other for anything else they might have missed, whilst in the middle of their shock upon finding the room in its current state.

  
  


There is still no answer from the man on the ground. And Gladio gets as close as to be within reach. But he doesn't dare touch. Not yet. He can't. He doesn't want to accidentally hurt Ignis. And he definitely doesn't want to sneak up on the man, lest he get an ornate dagger to his side, if Ignis hadn't heard him calling.

  
  


“Iggy, talk to me. What's going on.” Gladio tries a second time. His voice feels heavy, the words trying to desperately catch in the back of his throat, against the knot that's there. He's holding onto the hope that Ignis is okay, despite it all. Because he  _ had _ to be okay. None of them could bear it if he wasn't. He couldn't bear it if Ignis was not okay.

 

But the mumbling is incessant, like a broken record. And from up close, he can tell it's no language he knows. It's just mumbling, that carried on as if the advisor wasn't breathing between words. Words that sound twisted, distorted,  _ backwards. _

  
  


“Its Astral.” Comes the answer to his unasked question. The voice bleeding through the thick air from Gladio's left, startling him more than he'd care to admit any other day. But now, with the severity of the situation weighing on them all, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Nothing mattered but  _ Ignis. _

  
  


“What?” Prompto. That's Prompto, from somewhere behind them. He can tell the boy is nervous, anxious and  _ scared _ . He can tell by the way his shuffling echoes through the room, almost deafening. It pierced through everything. And the only sounds he can hear above it, are Ignis’ unintelligible mutterings, and their collective panicked exhales.

  
  


“He's speaking Astral.” Noctis sounds just as terrified as Gladio currently is. And the shield cannot judge.

  
  


But the answer the Prince provided, it's something that doesn't- that simply  _ can't _ sit well with Gladio. 

 

“What the  _ hell  _ do you  _ mean _ he's speaking  _ Astral _ .”

 

His voice is barely above an angry whisper, as if raising it now would hurt Ignis physically. As if allowing his temper to flare unrestrained would stop Ignis’ heart from beating entirely.

  
  


It's the fear that Ignis was hurt beyond their means that's overwhelming. Beyond a potion, or an elixir. He doesn't think a damned  _ Phoenix Down  _ would help at this point.

  
  


And the notion that the words spilling endlessly from the green eyed man are  _ Astral _ is absurd. It made no sense. Why would Ignis- Iggy, why would he be speaking  _ Astral.  _ He was no Oracle. He was no member of any royal blood line that could commune with the Gods. He was just Iggy. Their Iggy. Sitting on the ground in a state of half undress, and looking so small and fragile.  _ Broken. _

 

“I-” follows Noctis’ stutter, “I don't know, I just know it's Astral!” 

 

He can feel his stomach churning. And he can't watch Ignis hurt himself any longer than he already has. Than any of them already have.

  
  


He reaches forward, against his better judgement. Against the feeling in his gut that's screaming at him to  _ not touch the man _ . But it's Ignis, so he does so regardless, and without much of a second thought. It's  _ Ignis _ , so he places a gentle hand on the advisors shoulder, and watches from up where he stood, towering over the others crumpled form. His breath feels caught in his lungs, as if afraid to make its way out in the open to disturb the unease that's settled. And Gladio can feel himself suffocate on the anticipation of not knowing how Ignis would react to the simple touch, right now as his state of mind was completely unknown, and possibly unpredictable. He keeps his grip as nothing more than a light pressure, observing for a long, stressful moment. But when nothing happens, neither good nor bad, he gains the courage to reach upwards with both hands, to gently remove those stained fingers from the man's bleeding scalp. 

And when they go easily, Gladio can finally release that breath he was holding, in pure unadulterated relief.

  
  


“Ignis, look at me…” 

  
  


Ignis does not. Instead, he turns his head the opposite way, till his eyes can fix on Noctis. It's when they get a good look at the man's face, and almost wish none of them did.

 

Green irises were dulled out to nothing more than an emerald tinted grey, only reminiscent of their original, brilliant color. The once white sclera surrounding them now a bloodshot mess of popped minuscule vessels and pink stains. He must have been crying at some point. There are still wet streaks creeping their way down high cheekbones and pale skin. His eyes are rimmed red as well, and his lips are also stained with that Six be damned color. Ignis had been crying. The cut on his bottom lip just told them of how completely and utterly engulfing it was. Whatever it was that had pained Iggy- their Iggy, had seemingly taken over completely.

  
  


Gladio can barely repress the shudder that tears through him at the sight.

  
  


The only solace he can find- that they can all momentarily find, is that the mumbling of Astral gibberish had ceased. Finally.

  
  


But when the advisors lips part again, and that small comfort is threatened, it's then that all hell breaks loose.

  
  


Before any of them can as much as breathe or blink, Ignis is on his feet. He's as lightning fast as ever, stumbling his way over to Noctis in such an uncharacteristic display of desperation. The calm and collected Ignis. The man who kept a level head, even in times when none of them could. With eyes wide and filled to the brim with fear, and sorrow, and  _ distress. _

 

Noctis doesn't even have the time to brace himself, the gasp that gets tugged from his lungs not even making it to full completion, choked half way through, as Ignis’ full weight collided with the Prince.

 

They both go stumbling to the hard and unforgiving ground, in a mess of limbs and cast away paper. But Ignis has resolve. He seems to have some purpose, some goal. 

  
  


It's obvious in the way he pushes himself up from the smaller man, in haste. Before Gladio can come and rip him off of his charge. His fingers are making their way upwards, hands shaking and unsteady, till their pressing against Noct's face, digging. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make the spots, where bloodied fingers met pale skin, turn white under the pressure.

 

And Gladio can see the terror that varnished those stormy blue eyes, even from where he stood, across the room, still frozen in place. Its fear the shield has seen directed at daemons, and MT’s, and the prospect of one of them turning up injured during a hunt. But never, ever, has he seen Noctis direct that look at Ignis, his advisor and chamberlain. One of his oldest friends, who had been at the Prince's side as long as Gladio had, as both of them filled their role as the future King’s retinue, since they were nothing but mere  _ children _ .

 

And Gladio wants to spring into action, close the distance between himself and the scene, tear Ignis off of their prince. But he can't. He can't move, and from the looks of it, neither can Prompto.

 

Instead, they can only watch. As Ignis loses whatever's left of his composure. And consequently: his mind.

  
  


“Noct…” comes the first breathy word, the first word they can  _ understand _ . Uttered softly. Broken. A plea. And it's contagious. Whatever ailed the advisor is spreading across the room, and infected them as well, till their guts felt heavy with the weight of their hearts, and their chest constricted around their labored breaths.

  
  


“Oh, Noct…”

 

“Ignis-”

 

“Noctis. Noctis, Noctis. Noctis, I'm so sorry. I'm so  _ sorry _ Noct.” Ignis chants, over and over and over. And Noctis is  _ horrified _

 

“Ig-Ignis, Iggy it's okay, Noct is right here and perfectly okay, right buddy?” Prompto tries, but obviously fails to comfort the man gone mad.

  
  


It seemed like nothing in this world would be able to comfort him. And it breaks Gladio's heart.

  
  


Ignis is moving again. He's lowering his head till he's touching foreheads with the boy beneath him, skulls pressing painfully. Small drops of blood are gathering at his split lip, dripping once heavy enough, only to paint Noct's pale skin below.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've failed, I've failed you-” and then, more Astral, spilling freely from the unhinged man’s mouth. Words filled with more sorrow, more pleading. More of everything they've never heard come from Ignis.

 

It seems to take every ounce of willpower in Noctis to address Gladio, and not the sobbing man above him. But he manages. After inhaling a shaky breath, he forces himself to tear his gaze away from the pools of lackluster green that stared him down, that bore through him as if he were the most precious thing on all of Eos. As if he would be taken away any moment now. As if all it took was Ignis blinking, and he'd be gone.

 

“He's begging…” Noctis offers. Sounding disturbed. “He's begging the Gods.”

 

“But- why?” The blonde's voice is filled with nothing but innocence, curious but horrified awe.

 

“I don't know- I don't know…”

 

It's finally enough to get Gladio moving. But he's taking one quiet step at a time, as if approaching a skittish wild animal. A wounded animal, on the brink of death.

 

“ _ Gladio _ -” Noct  _ pleads _ . It's the last deciding factor, and the shield is already reaching to slip his hands under Ignis’ armpits, securing his hold around his captive’s chest, and pulling him off in one firm tug.

 

“Get the rope. Now!” Gladio barks, already tightening his grip around the squirming man.  Ignis was  _ fighting _ him.

 

But Noctis is immobile, paralyzed with fear, his eyes glued to the struggle playing out before him.

 

It's Prompto who sees to remove the rope from the armiger in a flash of blue crystal, and then rushes over, almost tripping on his own feet in the process.

 

The boy almost gets kicked a few times- and does get kicked quite a few other, as he scrambles to secure part of the bindings around the advisors ankles. He doesn't mutter a single complaint. He doesn't make a single pained sound. He completes his task, violet-blue eyes filled with focus and determination. Whilst Gladio held the man's upper body securely between large tattooed arms, trying his darndest to prevent any further damage. To himself, to Prompto, and to Iggy.

 

It's proves to be a struggle. While none of them are as strong as Gladio, or as massive as Gladio, Ignis still holds combat knowledge and the strength to back it up. He knows how to get out of holds such as this one, he's trained in most of the same things the shield has. To prepare them for any eventuality. To leave Insomnia behind, as they have. And with the way he's struggling against the shield’s hold, Gladio is met with a challenge.

 

They know, that if Ignis were in his right mind, he'd never purposely hurt any of them. And they know, that he'd do anything to refrain from harming them on accident.

 

But right now, he is writhing and screaming, held tight against Gladio's chest. The sounds coming from the man are absolutely devastating, filled with never ending  _ agony _ . As if he were being gutted alive, and ripped apart from the inside. Slowly.  _ Leisurely _ .

 

It takes every bit of self control not to give in to the sob that plainly threatens to pass Gladio's lips, unbidden, as amber eyes could only watch as Ignis thrashed about as if his life depended on it. But he's an Amicitia. He needs to keep a level head, even if it's not his strong suit. He needs to, now more than ever. Now that Ignis is out of commission. Now that Ignis  _ needs him to. _

 

“I can't! We can't- Time is of the essence, we're wasting  _ it! _ Let go of me-  _ please _ !”

 

“Gladio…” Prompto whispers, sounding unsure. Unsure if tying Ignis up was really the best course of action. 

 

“Iggy- Ignis! Just cooperate- I don't want to hurt you!” Gladio's voice is loud and booming. Asserting. But it's not enough. Not even close. Ignis is completely unfazed by the display of authority.

 

“Let go! You must! You have to! Please,  _ please  _ Gladio!” He just carries on with his begging instead. And Gladio is momentarily at a complete loss. 

 

It's when Ignis dips his head forward, till his chin is touching his sternum, that everything goes still for a split second. The gesture is an easily recognizable one. Gladio knows what's coming. But his brain isn't fast enough.

 

And then, he's swinging it backwards, and the next thing Gladio knows is pain.

 

He goes reeling, momentarily losing his hold on the advisor. It's all it takes for Ignis to slip free. 

 

But this time, Noctis is more prepared. He's on his feet, already moving. The engine blade is in his grasp with a flick of his wrist. And then he's bringing it down, in one swift motion, the butt of the sword hitting the advisor square in the man's left temple. It knocks Ignis unconscious.

 

They finish tying him up without a word.

 

\--

 

Noctis inhales. It's wet and shaky, and still filled with emotion. “What do we do now.” 

 

Gladio grunts. “Beats me.” He says, from where he's sitting at the edge of the bed. He hasn't removed his gaze from the bundle of blankets for what feels like hours now. He hasn't moved once since they placed Ignis’ unconscious form under the ruined sheets. Fully bound in rope.

 

They know they're going to have to figure this out. Figure  _ something _ out. They cannot continue on to the next royal tomb like this. And they don't  _ want to. _ Not when Ignis is not okay. The advisor took priority. Their Iggy took priority over every royal tomb out there.

 

And Gladio knows he shouldn't let personal feeling get in the way of their  _ mission. _ Get in the way of his calling. Of Noct's calling. Not even of Ignis’ calling. The little voice in his mind is telling him to  _ suck it up and keep moving. _ But he's not giving it much thought, and neither are Noctis nor Prompto, it seemed. So Gladio lets it be. At least for now. Until they figure it out.

 

“I guess we call Cor. See if he knows anything.” Noct's eyes are dancing across the room, beneath his lashes. Scrutinizing the Astral lettering in clear unease.

 

“You think the marshal would know what to do?”

 

“I don't know Prom. I don't know anything anymore.” And Gladio finds himself agreeing wholeheartedly.

 

But Cor the Immortal is the only thing they have left of Insomnia, aside from themselves and each other. He's one of the last remaining pieces of their home. The last remaining person they can look up to, that they can ask for help. He's one of the few survivors.

 

And he was willing to help, in any way he could.

 

He was still sworn to the Crown.

 

“I guess calling the marshal it is.” The shield finally concedes, pushing himself off the bed, and slipping a still shaking hand into one of the pockets of his pants. He pulls his phone out, thumbs through it for a moment, and then the room is filled with the soft hums of ringing.

 

-

 

Cor has nothing.

 

No answers. No insight. No clue what so ever as to what the hell was wrong with Ignis.

 

He does have suggestions however. And they aren't particularly to Gladio's liking. Nor Noct's, or Prompto's for that matter. But they all know, that at this point, when they lack understanding of just what in Ifrits asscrack happened, that they don't actually have a choice in the matter. They needed to do what needed to be done. To ensure the prince's safety. To ensure  _ Ignis’ _ safety. Whom was currently much more of a threat to himself than anyone else. And none of them wanted to see Ignis hurt himself, not if they could prevent it.

 

So the bindings stayed.

 

And they'd stay till the advisor could prove himself. 

 

And the notion alone is disconcerting.

 

They were going to have to keep a close eye on the man. At all times. They were definitely sleeping in cycles for the next week, or two, or three. They were sleeping in cycles until this got resolved. Until Ignis was okay.

 

Noctis sighs. “I just…” He starts, voice heavy with sorrow, “Just want Specs to be okay.”

 

Prompto makes a sound in agreement.

 

Gladio just hopes.

 

-

 

“Think of all the damage fees we're going to be paying.” Says Prompto, breaking the silence. He follows it with a half hearted chuckle. They don't even have to scold the boy, as he shuts his mouth all on his own when his joke can't even lift his own mood.

 

They've been sitting there for most of the remaining day. Switching between guarding the bed, and filling in for Ignis. 

 

But they aren't Iggy. So they have Cup Noodles for dinner. And they try their best to organize themselves for the following day. Even if Ignis is still not okay. Still unconscious. Still sick with something unknown.

 

They still try. They have to. For when Iggy wakes up.

 

-

 

In the end, they can't do much but wait. Wait for something, anything. They know it's ridiculous. How absurd it was to just wait around as if an answer would simply fall from the sky- but, then again, whatever  _ this _ was had to do with the Astrals. And maybe, just maybe, they'd be kind enough to throw them a clue or two. Something that could point them in the right direction. Give them an inkling of an idea as to what they should be doing, and what they are dealing with. Because as of now, they are lost. Thoroughly and completely  _ lost _ .

 

They've talked. And talked, and talked. Contemplated moving on, loading Iggy into the back seat of the Regalia, and just driving. Maybe they'd find an answer somewhere. Maybe one of the Astrals could help. What coated the walls was their language after all. If they couldn't help, then no one could.

 

They've talked about contacting the Oracle. Noct's idea at first, which then once discussed, didn't sound too terrible. It's a start at least. They can recognize as much. It's all they had after all.

 

“Maybe we can catch up to her.” Says Noct. He sounds hopeful. Like maybe this might just be the solution.

 

“It's worth a try. Right, Big Guy?” Prompto follows up with, waiting for the shields approval. He's trying to keep things as light as possible, but even he's aware of how difficult that feat is, right now, like this.

 

“I can send her a heads up through the book… I can call Umbra so it can be delivered as soon as possible.”

 

Gladio is not entirely convinced. But it doesn't matter. Because it's  _ all they had right now. _

 

“It's at least some kind of plan. Maybe she can really help.” Says Prompto.

 

“Gladio?” A question this time. Directed at him. It's enough to snap him out of his reveries, enough to regard the Prince.

 

“Yeah. Sounds like a plan alright.” He says, gruffly.

 

Noctis doesn't need to be told twice, already producing the book, flipping through the pages in search of the first blank one. Gladio can practically see the cogs turning in the prince’s head, as he searches for the words. A complex issue indeed. He wouldn't know how to word any of this himself either.

 

It's when a loud startled gasp fills the room-  _ Prompto's _ , that both Noctis and Gladio turn their attention to the blonde.

 

And then Gladio hears a similar gasp roll past Noct's lips as well, to match Prompto's, when stormy blue tears away from the other man to glance in the same direction. 

 

“Gentiana??”

 

_ Well the Gods be damned.  _

 

_ Finally. _

 

“Gentiana.”

 

Gladio rocks to his feet in record time, regarding the Messenger with his full attention. But before he can even get a single word in, she is already speaking. Effectively cutting him off.

 

“A gift from the Gods has been delivered.”

 

But she doesn't appear joyful, or festive. Her lips are tugged downwards in something that resembled a mild frown. Her expression grim, almost grieving.

 

“Maketh of it what you please.”

 

It almost sounds like… some semblance of  _ cynicism _ , bordering on what they dare think might be hatred.

 

And then her gaze turns towards the bed.  _ Towards Ignis _ .

 

_ Ignis. _

 

“Will Specs- Will Ignis be okay?” Is the first thing out of Noct's mouth, as soon as he gets the chance.

 

But Gentiana doesn't answer. 

 

She's silent.

 

And so is the room around them. All falling into an uncomfortable and grim silence.

 

It's enough of an answer. But none of them are okay with that. They can't be. So they aren't.

 

“Is Ignis going to be okay? Please Gentiana.” Noctis begs.

 

But the Messenger simply shuts her eyes, and then she's gone.

 

“ _ Gods damn it all!” _

 

Gladio kicks a chair, watching in satisfaction as one of the legs cleanly snaps off.

 

The room was already a mess, and neither Prompto nor Noctis have anything to say about it.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've already got an outline for the second chapter, so hopefully it'll be soon ; v ;  
> Let me know what you guys thought! Also, I'm sorry about any mistakes! This is kind of unbeta'd.


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